The First Sail

The day for the first sail arrived. Fog had been threatening, but the sun was shining bright when Brittany gave a speech and splashed some white wine over Eurydice's bow. A few minutes later we  launched her and struggled to rig her afloat for the first time. I was hesitant to raise both sails in the little space, lest we be blown into the docks and other boats, so we sailed out the harbour under jib alone. It was slow going - but we were sailing.

Eurydice ready to launch.

            We ran with the wind until we cleared the last channel-marker and turned on a starboard tack, heading up the bay toward a popular beach. After about a mile it was time to tack, but I found she wasn’t making enough speed to bring her head around. After a couple failed attempts, we turned the other way and gybed instead.

            Comfortable with the jib, I decided to raise the mainsail – easier said than done, with a fair breeze and no way to keep our bow into the wind. After much flapping, a lot of cursing, and being blown about a mile to leeward, the mainsail was raised and we were making much better progress.

Sun and sails.

            We tacked back into the wind, back toward the beach, with me explaining the ropes to Brittany as we progressed. She didn’t much care for heeling, but she picked up the theory very quickly and kept a constant eye on the jib.

            Some problems were apparent by this point. Under any speed, the rudder sprung up so that only its last quarter was in the water. This led to a scene where I, leaning over the stern, pliars in one hand and a screwdriver in the other, tightened the rudder bolt while I steered with my leg. After that is ceased to give problems, but I know it’ll come up again.

            Another issue was the radbud scuppers, with their one-way ping-pong ball valves; they didn’t work at all. The ping-pong balls merely bubbled around while water poured in through the scupper holes. This taught us to sit forward, but I don’t like the idea that moving to the stern will sink my boat.

            We tacked up until we were almost to the beach and had just rounded a small rocky island when Brittany said it was time for her to get back. This was the best part of the day – being so far to windward from the harbour, I pointed her bow back toward the entrance and let out sail with the wind coming over our port quarter. Eurydice positively flew along, heeling over so that we were both leaning out with our feet under the toe-strap to keep her even, and making a lovely wake.

            We rounded the breakwater and tacked back up the harbour, feeling ourselves near experts at the maneuver now (compared to our earlier, clumsy attempts), but two things of interest happened on what should have been the last tack to approach the boat ramp. The first was that my tiller extension, which I’d constructed quickly out of soft wood, snapped off at the universal joint. The second was that Brittany misunderstood my instructions and uncleated the centerboard early, and it promptly lifted. I didn’t realize this at first, but what had previously been forward movement changed suddenly to a confusing, sideways slip. There was no better way to illustrate the centreboard’s function than to try sailing close-hauled without it.

            A few tacks later with the centerboard down and we were back at the boat ramp, where we went through the minutia of de-rigging the little boat and loading her back onto the trailer.

Secure on the trailer.

            I learned a lot during those few hours, and most of them reinforced that I need more and more practice on the water. I’m heading to sea for work for the next two weeks, however, so it’ll be early July before I can sail again.

            The little boat has come a long way.

Tiddly Bits

With all the major parts taken care of, all that was left was the tiddly bits. Inventorying this would be a pain in the ass and a bore to read, but in the spirit of completeness I’m going to go through the basics.

            Despite what I said in my last post, it turned out to be a little more than “a few minutes drilling and riveting.” Since it was raining (again) on the first day of my week off, I did what I could inside by turning to the rudder. I secured a cam-cleat to the tiller to catch the line that pulls the rudder up, and then I drilled a hole in the rudder cheeks and passed a bolt through that to prevent the rudder from moving too far forward. I relied on the friction of the rudder against the cheeks, and a good tight rudder bolt, to hold the blade down.

            With some sunshine, I turned to fitting the rest of the hardware to the boat. I spent a while measuring the size of every bolt and screw I thought I’d need, and then a much longer time at the hardware store sorting through drawers of stainless nuts, bolts and washers to find everything I needed. These in hand, I returned to Eurydice with a vengeance.

            The stern pintel and gudgeon went on first, followed by the bung hole and radbud scuppers. These latter have a ping-pong ball inside them which theoretically floats-up to block any water from entering the boat. I put all of this on with copious amounts of marine silicone sealant.

The gudgeon, pintel and radbud scuppers in place.

            I’d been at a bit of a loss for what to do with the jib sheets, as they should each properly have their own fairlead and cleat. I only had one cleat, so in the interest of sailing solo I rigged them up so they each ran through their own fairlead, respectively, but instead of a cleat for each sheet, I put one in the middle of the boat. Why have two cleats if I only use one jib sheet at a time?

            A camcleat near the center bracket holds the centerboard down quite nicely, and I put eight small bolts through the transom to connect it to the deck at that point. The last tiddly bit was bolting a stainless loop to the transom above the plug, as an attachment point for the toe-strap, which I also bolted to the thwart.

            The last and best part was the arrival of Gabrielle, who came with her paint brushes and shared a beer while she painted the Eurydice’s name across each bow, leading with an ancient Greek “E” and finishing with her own cursive. Where would any of us be without friends? Thank you, Gabrielle.

Gabrielle painting Eurydice's name.

            It was a strange thing to say she was “finished,” so instead I decided to say she’s “ready for her first sail.” A boat, according to Bertrand Moitessier, is never finished.

             

The Rigging

With the horizontal parts as painted and finished as I was willing to let them get in anno domini 2019, I turned my attention to the up-and-down pieces which cause the lateral bits to move. Many years ago a very dear friend had been kind enough to take my old standing rigging to the Binnacle, in Halifax, and have some new stainless shrouds rove. Every time since then that I’d thought of those coiled wires I’d been filled with a feeling of dread, lest they not be long enough – or worse, too long.

            My fears were allayed when I manhandled the mast into its newly-fitted step and strung the shrouds through their newly-laid bushings and into the refitted chainplates. They were exactly the correct length, at least without spreaders, but those mysterious pieces of hardware will constitute a future chapter all on their own. For the time being, the shrouds made me happy.

            The forestay wouldn’t reach the bow plate without more convincing than I could give it with my bare hand on the wire, but a shackle and some elbow grease talked it into a connection. I’d elected not to replace the forestay when I had the shrouds fabricated because the jib stay takes the majority of the strain once the halliard is tensioned, so now I’m left to cope with the original forestay and all its adorable eccentricities, like the weird kink in the middle that takes up so much slack.

The forestay looks deceptively perfect in this photo.

            Unlike running rigging of old, where all the lines ran up-and-down on blocks, this modern aluminum mast has its main and jib halliard running through the mast’s interior. The main halliard leads from a little pulley at the very tip-top of the mast down through the hollow insides and out a little hole near the bottom. The jib halliard is similar, except that it exits the mast part-way up. While I’m sure this is fine operationally, it’s a real pain in the ass to feed 25 feet of ¼ line down a hollow tube. I’m going to skip how I did this, because the explanation would take over a thousand words, many of them four-lettered, and require a schematic for the reader to truly appreciate. If you want to enjoy a similar experience you’ll need a pint of Malibu rum, a telescopic fly rod, about a thousand blackflies, blazing sun and five times your own length in aluminum piping to shake vigorously for at six minute intervals.

            In the end, though, it was up. I used the main halliard as a topping-lift for the boom, which I wanted in place so I could attach all the mainsheet rigging. I was happy with the result, and the next day I snuck out between rain showers to hoist the jib and mainsail for the very first time.

Finally carrying sail. 

            It was a beautiful sight to behold.

            I also realized that I’d have to improvise some sort of mechanical advantage for the mainsail’s outhaul, since the alternative is brute force and making a series of hitches at the end of the boom. I have spare blocks and cam-cleats, so that shouldn’t take more than a few minutes drilling and riveting.